


Hot and Black (I like my coffee how I like my men)

by puzzlez



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Slow Romance, a lot of weird flirting, also a lot longer than it probably needs to be, and not to be taken seriously, and some groping and making out, balthazar being perfect, but maybe fluffy if you overlook the crack, but nothing too serious, coffee house, crack romance more like, crowley being the opposite, disturbing urine uses, even more harry potter crack theories, ficus protection, i guess, in sum a lot of crack, lots of book reading, seriously LOTS of crack, there may also be a good sprinkling of foul language, threats via magazines, unless you're into that kinda thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-21
Updated: 2014-03-21
Packaged: 2018-01-16 11:32:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1345915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/puzzlez/pseuds/puzzlez
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A story in which there are no "hot and black" men, but rather one Sam Winchester who just wanted to get through his last summer before college. And a story in which there is also a rude (little) shit, whom we know as Gabriel. And somehow, despite Sam's insistence that Gabriel should be banned from the coffee house he works at, and Gabriel's continuing to be a rude (little) shit, this turns into a romance.</p><p>A love story told in misunderstandings, book binging, Harry Potter crack theories, Destiel shipping, and that incident with the pee that no one is ever allowed to speak of again.</p><p>In other words, a Sabriel AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hot and Black (I like my coffee how I like my men)

**Author's Note:**

> This is a (late) birthday gift to a friend. Inspired from this conversation:
> 
> [12/29/2013 6:03:23 PM] Azshalora: Write me a ridiculous coffee shop AU.  
> Do it.  
> [12/29/2013 6:03:39 PM] Azshalora: I have a secret soft spot for those.  
> [12/29/2013 6:05:10 PM] Azshalora: I'm just imagining Sam working at a coffee shop, and Gabriel keeps showing up and they sass each other to death.  
> [12/29/2013 6:05:27 PM] puzzlez: oh gosh that would be so mega cute.  
> [12/29/2013 6:05:55 PM] Azshalora: And like, Sam knows he's supposed to be nice to the customers but Gabriel is SUCH a little shit.
> 
> Also, special thanks to Akree, who helped me with the ideas for this, as well as being the writer of Gabriel’s “period” rant. His line “It was a fucking smelly, chunky period!” is pretty much a stolen quote from her. c:
> 
> Warning: this is mostly crack. I do not condone or encourage anyone to duplicate the crazy antics found in this story.
> 
> EDIT: Changed the rating to T, because after some consideration, I remembered the language is a bit much for G.

There was this joy of working in an atmosphere that suited your personality that couldn’t really be explained.

 

When he’d first taken the job, it was just a couple hours a week. But that gradually changed until all his free time was spent in the small shop, and it became his life: the smell of coffee and fruit and pastries thick in the air, steam from a fresh chai curling around his nose, the soft thrum of music (not classical rock, either) in sync with the sporadic tapping of a laptop’s keyboard, every now and then the crackling of paper as a novel or magazine’s page was flipped.

Dean had scoffed, then guffawed. “ _Hot and Black_? Is this a coffee house or a pornography studio?”

 

He’d glowered back defiantly, feeling oddly protective of the peculiar shop he’d just gotten a job at, and it’s odd eccentricities (“no pisser, so make sure you lose that water weight at home before you lug your arse in here, _capice_?” had been his new and rather brash boss’ first and only instructions). “As in _want your coffee hot and black_? Figured you could guess that much. Pervert.”

 

But Dean had just rolled his eyes with an amused smirk and muttered something about _yeah, Sammy,  you would get your hoity toity ass a job at a hoity toity coffee shop—fast food’s way too low class for you._

That was three years ago, though, and now Dean knew that the rag-tag shop was Sam’s life. It was a way to earn pocket money for college (soon upcoming, with him having just graduated high school), but more than that, he _enjoyed_ all his time there.

 

“Well, hel _lo_ , Moosey.”

 

Well, most of his time there.

 

Sam’s eyes flicked up from the counter he was wiping down to warily eye the rather short man approaching.

 

As Hot and Black (and Sam would never openly admit that there was maybe a subtitle under that—so chipped and weatherworn away Sam liked to pretend it was no longer there—that read _I like my coffee how I like my men_ ) was an independent shop, it relied solely on its patron’s loyalty. That meant that it was up to Sam and the other baristas to keep the customers happy and entertained enough to want to come back often. Of course, being a rude shit was bound to have customers running away and never returning, so Sam did his best to keep himself from being said rude shit.

 

This abomination of a man—er, customer—made it ridiculously hard not to be a rude shit when _he_ was such a rude (little) shit.

 

“What do you want?” And if there was a tone of exasperation in Sam’s tone, it was definitely because the guy set his half eaten sucker on the counter, its sticky slime settling on the lacquer, and _not_ because he had ruined Sam’s day by showing up.

 

Like he did every day.

 

(To Sam’s dismay.)

 

“Gabriel!” Sam was suddenly elbowed out of the way so that a blond haired British man could snatch up the lollipop and waggle it around in the little man’s face. “ _What_ have I told you about leaving your bleeding sweets all over my store?”

 

“Piss off, Balthy,” Gabriel calmly replied. “I was just giving your boring ol’ shack some class. It didn’t _bleed_ anywhere.”

 

It also didn’t help that the rude (little) shit was the cousin of Sam’s boss. So Sam _had_ to be polite to him or his job would be out the door.

 

“With you here, class it out the window,” Sam muttered, fiddling with an empty coffee pot.

 

But Sam had to give just a little bit of lip for the trouble he caused.

 

“I heard that, Moosey!”

 

“Glad to know your ears still work,” he drawled back.

 

Or maybe more than a little.

 

Balthazar was scrubbing up the sticky mess his cousin had just made. “What do you _want_? I thought you kept whining you don’t like coffee!”

 

Gabriel’s eyes shot over to Sam, and he smirked. Like the rude (little) shit he was. “I like coffee just fine.”

 

Balthazar muttered some British obscenity under his breath (Sam could only assume it was British, anyway, as it contained quite a lot of _bleeding_ and _bloody_ ), and blundered off, shaking his head.

 

“Sam, you have the pleasure of helping him,” he called over his shoulder.

 

Right. “About as much pleasure as I would serving Pennywise.”

 

“Sammy boy,” Gabriel began pleasantly. “Our conversations would run so much smoother if I understood your references.”

 

“ _It,_ ” Sam said simply, not bothering to explain further before: “Usual?”

 

“Usual,” he agreed.

 

Sam bit his tongue from saying anything further as he frothed a cappuccino and sprayed a dollop of whipped cream on top.

 

“My thanks,” Gabriel saluted after paying. “So. _It_.”

 

Sam had readied a sarcastic retort, but found he didn’t need to let it fly as those were Gabriel’s parting words. He said nothing more as he turned and left.

 

Which was rather unusual, actually, as Gabriel usually loitered around as he licked the whipped cream off his drink and slowly downed his sweet beverage. _Loitering around_ also included harassing and heckling Sam, though, so Sam was not going to complain if Gabriel booked it early. No, he’d just count his blessings and hope that he wouldn’t come back the next day.

 

XXX

 

Which, as it turned out, proved to be a futile wish. Sam must’ve miscounted his blessings, because next day, in strutted Gabriel, looking like he owned the place. The image brought to mind a rather similar character from a movie Sam had watched when he was younger, about a green ogre, a talking donkey, and a rude (little) shit prince who thought the world tripped over itself to bow at his feet.

 

“I thought Pennywise was a goddamn _clown_ ,” were his first words, and Sam eyed him cautiously.

 

“He was,” he replied slowly, like he thought he might be detonating a bomb.

 

“No,” Gabriel snapped. “Pennywise was a shape-shifting _thing_. The it of _It_. It chose to _look_ like a clown, but it could take other forms. Here I thought he was a pedophiliac old man who couldn’t get kids to sit on his lap and had terrible luck with finding a hooker, and took his sexual frustration out through brutal murders.”

 

Sam didn’t even want to know where that assumption _came_ from. “Usual?”

 

“Usual,” Gabriel agreed, sighing. “That Stephen King is _fucked_.”

 

Sam paused mid turn to crane his head over his shoulder and give Gabriel a _look_. “You read Stephen King.”

 

The question wasn’t really a question, but the statement of a man double checking that the world had, indeed, decided to stop rotating around the sun and the end was nigh.

 

“Read _ing_ ,” the shorter man corrected. Then he made a dismissive gesture. “I’m near the end—something about a god turtle?—and I’m ready to go back through and cross out all the times Bill fucking s- stu- stuh- stuh- stuh- stuh- _stutters_. That damn book would have at _least_ two hundred less pages if he wouldn’t take three pages to get his point across because of a _psychosomatic problem_. Damn ass doesn’t even have a _reason_ for such a psychosomatic issue. Brother’s dead; big whoop.”

 

Sam just kinda stared in amazement after that outburst. The he peered behind Gabriel to make sure the sun hadn’t spontaneously combusted and was raining chunks of fire down on the earth.

 

Gabriel raked a hand through his hair, scowling at Sam’s reaction. “What?” he snapped. “None of my friends _read,_ you asshat. You can’t suggest a book and then shut me down when I tell you what I think of it. I don’t have anyone else to talk to. What, you think _Balthy_ is going to have a chat with me about _It_ over a cuppa?”

 

Gabriel’s horrible mockery of a British accent aside, Sam was just a teensy bit gob smacked. He didn’t know that _psychosomatic_ was in Gabriel’s foul vocabulary, let alone a word that he’d ever use to describe a book that Sam recommended—

 

“Yesterday,” Sam said out loud, which only warranted a sharp look from Gabriel and a barked _what?_

 

“Yesterday,” Sam repeated. “I mentioned that book in passing _yesterday_.” He turned so that he was fully facing Gabriel again, hands on hips. “I didn’t _recommend_ anything and—where the hell is there a god turtle in _It?_ No, don’t answer that. How did _you_ read a Stephen King novel in a night? And _It_? That’s one of his longest books to date. How—?”

 

“Wow, did you even _read_ the book? That damn turtle makes more appearances than Johnny Depp in Tim Burton films. It’s explained at the end—the turtle’s a metaphor for God?” Coming from Gabriel, the _duh_ tone was highly irritating when it was used in regards to _books_ , something Sam was sure wasn’t even in Gabriel’s _radar_.

 

Sam frantically dug through his memory. “Oh. It’s just been a while since I read the book is all,” he snapped defensively. “I remember the turtle, okay?”

 

Despite remembering the turtle (vaguely), he felt oddly embarrassed that a rude (little) shit, who Sam had previously assumed was illiterate, was showing him up at something Sam was passionate about, and found his voice harsher than he meant when he snapped, “What are you doing reading _It_ anyway?”

 

He turned away to fiddle a cappuccino together, his motions a bit jerkier than usual from his irritation.

 

“ _Carrie_ is the one people usually start with,” he continued petulantly. “You don’t just dive into Stephen King with _It_.”

 

Dollop of whipped cream slapped on top of the drink, Sam turned back to Gabriel and traded it for the money.

 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Gabriel drawled before turning and leaving.

 

And wow, two days in a row he didn’t loiter around to harass Sam. He didn’t know what he did to have such gracious luck, but he wouldn’t mind if the pattern continued.

 

Shaking away his amazement that Gabriel had read a novel that counted well over a thousand pages (or most of it, apparently) in a little over twenty four hours, Sam banished all further thoughts of the rude (little) shit from his mind

 

XXX

 

“Carrie is a PMS’ing _bitch_ ,” Gabriel greeted him the next day, which just-so-happened to scare the piss out of Sam, who had been crouching behind the counter to clean up a spilled bag of coffee beans. He’d jumped and whacked his head against the counter, which just made the whole thing even more fun.

 

“Carrie is a stereotypical teenager who’s too involved in her own self esteem issues to get over herself—I’d go so far as to claim narcissism,” Balthazar chimed in from his stool next to the coffee bean display near the check out area. He didn’t even look up from his magazine, but instead went so far as to turn the page as he said it.

 

Sam slowly stood up and let his eyes flick between the two. Gabriel was looking at Sam, and Balthazar was way too involved in his world of celebrities and who slept with whom to look at anyone at all, so Sam could only _assume_ that Gabriel’s comment had been for him.

 

Sam eyed Gabriel carefully, patting at his sore head.

 

“Moose, there’s a counter there. I think you need glasses if you couldn’t see it,” his short customer so-kindly pointed out.

 

“I _need_ a lot of things. I _need_ you to leave before you cause me to have a brain aneurism. Just _what_ do you mean Carrie’s a PMS’ing bitch?” Sam snapped, perhaps more peevishly than he should’ve considering his boss was in ear shot.

 

“That girl was _obsessed_ with her damn period!” Gabriel burst out, like he’d been holding that back longer than was healthy and he was just letting it all off his chest finally. “I mean, the whole thing is just one damn period! Hell, the whole _book_ was a metaphor of a period! All this build up for the end, where it’s just—blood everywhere! Splish, splash, take your bath, like. Carrie was so obsessed with her period she had pig blood splashed all over her, even! _Her_ period wasn’t enough, so she needed a pig period on her head! The book was just a huge goddamn period— _why_ does everyone claim that book was great? It was a fucking smelly, _chunky_ period! I thought periods were supposed to _suck_!”

 

It was just a great week for Gabriel rendering Sam brain dead from shock. Wasn’t there some theories that Ragnarok was to occur in 2014? Was this how it started? Sam couldn’t honestly say he’d read up on it.

 

“ _What_?” Sam was a bit relieved he hadn’t _really_ gone brain dead. “No, no, no, don’t tell me, just—just leave. That—that was—I don’t think I’ve ever heard the definition of _retarded_ in such a manner, but—no. No, just…”

 

Sam drifted off and, boss or no boss sitting within ear’s reach (perhaps looking less concerned with his relative’s mental health after that outburst and more amused), and made vague gestures towards the door behind Gabriel. “Just—leave.”

 

“Aw, Sammy boy, don’t be a sour puss just because you don’t like talking about your Aunt Flo.”

 

“I do not have an Aunt Flo,” Sam calmly replied, pinching the bridge of his nose and counting to ten to keep from just leaping at Gabriel, picking him up like a sack of potatoes, and tossing him out the door.

 

“Wouldn’t surprise me if it’s your time of month,” Gabriel murmured dubiously, eying Sam over. “You always have a stick up your ass, but you’ve been especially bitchy, if you know what I—”

 

“Gabriel,” Sam exhaled through his nose. “I do not have a time of month.”

 

“You sure? Seems like you’re riding the cotton pony now, with how you’re being a bit of a b—”

 

“ _I am not riding a cotton pony_ ,” Sam snarled, louder than he intended. Several customers looked up from their tables to give Sam a startled or disturbed look.

 

“Aye, that’s enough of that,” Balthazar called from where he was sitting, probably more for appearance (seeing as he was kinda sitting right in front of a room of customers), if the smirk he was hiding behind his magazine was anything to go by. “Gabriel, order something and stop harassing my employee. Sam, make the beverage and stop harassing our valued customer.”

 

“Yeah, stop harassing your valued customer,” Gabriel heartily agreed like the rude (little) shit he was.

 

Sam grumbled something then muttered, “Usual?”

 

“Usual,” the rude (little) shit confirmed, much too dapper for someone who was just chastised by his cousin (even if it was half-joking).

 

Sam aggressively went through the motions of making the cappuccino and then traded it off to Gabriel.

 

“Ta,” the shorter man said, hungrily eyeing the whipped cream atop his drink. “See ya tomorrow, Moosey.”

 

“I won’t be here,” Sam retorted.

 

Gabriel didn’t even pause in sticking his tongue in his whipped cream and lapping it up. “Yes, you will.”

 

Disappointment settled over him that his attempt to deter Gabriel from harassing him— _visiting_ the shop—tomorrow were in vain, but it was quickly washed away with suspicion. “How do you know that?”

 

Gabriel stared at a dot of whipped cream that had gotten stuck to the tip of his nose and tried licking it off with his tongue, failing miserably and looking rather disturbed in the process. “You work tomorrow. Of course you’ll be here.”

 

Sam scowled at the ridiculous display and reached across to wipe the offensive sweet from Gabriel’s face and then demanded, “Yes, but _how_ do you know that?”

 

He turned suspicious eyes to Balthazar, who looked far too interested in his magazine to be casual.

 

“Thanks,” Gabriel beamed, still oddly chipper. Then, to presumably answer Sam’s question: “I’m always watching.”

 

And with that ominous remark, he turned and skedaddled.

 

Sam called after him, “Why don’t you make sure you hang some _posters_ on your way out, Big Brother?”

 

The rest of Sam’s night felt boring after that.

 

XXX

 

It was Sam’s own fault, he knew. He didn’t really _know_ what possessed him—

 

No, bald-faced lie. He did know.

 

There was something about being shown up (well, not really) by a foul-mouthed baboon masquerading as a person (namely, Gabriel) that just didn’t sit right with Sam. He _had_ read Stephen King’s _It_ and _Carrie_ , it was just it’d been a rather long time, so the details weren’t fresh in his mind, okay? Wasn’t his fault he was up most of the night skimming through them for a damn god turtle (and growing rather surprised at himself for ever forgetting about it because _wow_ , Gabriel’s comparison of Johnny Depp in Tim Burton movies just didn’t give it justice), and trying to figure out how _Carrie_ was a giant period (and finding that Gabriel’s raving theory on that one was one that he would have to politely disagree on and then proceed to argue that Gabriel was a lunatic for ever thinking it).

 

The point: he stayed up much, _much_ too late; later than he should’ve with a mid-day shift at the café, and maybe he got desperate. Maybe. If you called chugging three cheap large coffees from the nearest fast food joint (rhymed with Shmackdonuld’s, name withheld for legal purposes, you see) as he crawled to the café _desperate_ , then Sam was a desperate fool.

 

Anyway, four and a half hours after that, Sam was about to take his break when—oh, well he became concerned for one of Canada’s most prized tourist attractions because that was _definitely_ Niagara Falls that had somehow relocated itself just above his bladder, and how that happened was beyond even Sam’s intellect, but said bladder was _definitely_ about to burst like a fragile bubble. Sam rather liked having a bladder so he found himself doing that stiff-legged walk one does when one has to pee so bad that one thinks that moving as few muscles as possible will help control the bladder muscles and keep the flood behind the dam. That stiff-legged walk found him next to Balthazar, who was looking through a different celebrity gossip magazine from the day before.

 

“Balthazar,” Sam said as calmly as one could when one had a ticking time bomb inside one’s body, “I need to _piss_.”

 

“Sam,” Balthazar replied as lazily as one could before one’s mouth simply refused to open at all. “Interview—I said no pisser, lose that water weight at home. I might’ve even thrown in some fancy Italian word like _capice_.”

 

“Are you saying I should walk _home_ to piss?” Sam hissed, keeping his voice down as not to be overheard by the couple of customers milling around the shop.

 

“Whatever tickles your pickle.” And Balthazar didn’t even look up when he answered that, but his eyebrows sure shot up at whatever he was reading. He brought the magazine closer to his face, as though double checking a universe-shattering story to make sure he was reading it right.

 

Sam’s eyes darted around to make sure the customer’s were far enough to not hear him when he hissed, a little louder than before, “Balthazar, I am three seconds from exploding piss chunks all over your café.”

 

Balthazar set his magazine down and scowled. “I think you’ve been hanging around Gabriel and that brother of yours too much.”

 

Sam had no idea what he would’ve said after that to appeal to Balthazar’s stone-cold heart, so he was more than relieved when the British lad stood and went behind the counter, grumbling British obscenities (again, or so Sam could only assume as there was, again, a lot of _bloody_ and _bleeding_ involved). There was the sound of clutter being shoved aside, and despite only paper items being stored under the counters, Sam distinctly heard something shatter (that brought a rapid string of swears from Balthazar) and a pair of dice fell out and rolled across the floor before Balthazar found what he was looking for. He didn’t look over at Sam when he held out—

 

“That,” Sam began calmly, as calmly as one could in times of terrorism anyway, “is a cup.”

 

“Sam,” Balthazar said mildly, or as mildly as one could when one’s patience was a string past frayed, “it’s the cup or exploding piss chunks all over my shop—and then cleaning them up after.”

 

Trying a different approach, Sam desperately continued, “Don’t you have an alley behind this shop or something?”

 

Once upon a time, Dean told Sam that nothing compared to Sam’s bitch face, that even God himself feared that face. But Sam was going to have to remember to disagree with Dean on that one later—there was nothing like the look Balthazar was giving him just then.

 

“There are buildings on nearly every side of us, and a steady flow of people,” Balthazar stately simply. “A copper sits in our alley to give out pesky speeding tickets to anyone who goes half a mile over the speed limit as he stuffs his face full of our donuts. No matter _where_ you go out there, you’re getting arrested for public indecency.”

 

Sam’s eyes darted around, desperately seeking a way out of his mess. His eyes fell on a ficus plant that Balthazar kept in an inconspicuous corner of the shop.

 

“Don’t you _dare_ piss in my tree,” Balthazar snapped when Sam’s gaze became focused. He didn’t even need to turn to see what Sam was looking at before saying it, but had probably memorized its location and understood Sam’s train of thought too well. Then he firmly repeated: “It’s the cup or exploding piss chunks.”

 

XXX

 

And _that_ was how Sam found himself rejected from three different restaurants ten minutes later. _Restrooms are for customers only_ , they had politely turned him down. And Sam, being just as polite, had nodded and stiffly scuttled off to the next restaurant in the hopes of shedding what would probably be half his body mass in water weight.

 

The fourth restaurant was a little farther away but Sam decided it would be worth it in the end because _surely_ the fourth restaurant would be the magical one where he could use the—

 

“Sorry, chap,” the finely dressed British host told Sam after watching Sam’s desperate gesticulations and whining noises that passed as his plea to use the facilities. How the gent knew what it was Sam was inquiring about was beyond him, but perhaps the man ( _Crowley_ , the name tag proudly declared) had had previous men looking as raggedy and desperate as Sam enter his restaurant to give similar inquiries.

 

“Sorry?” Sam weakly managed.

 

“Restrooms are for patrons only,” Crowley told Sam, in a tone that suggested he pitied Sam for his lack of brain activity, but only slightly.

 

“ _Please._ I just—I just need to piss,” Sam begged.

 

Crowley shrugged in a nonchalant manner, spreading his hands out as if to say _what can ya do_. “Not my rules, mate. I’m just paid to stand here and enforce them.”

 

The restaurant was called _The Pit_. And in hindsight, Sam supposed it was just expected the servers would be as dickish as hellish demons.

 

So Sam closed his eyes to pray to whatever god may or may not exist to give him the strength to make it through his misfortunes.

 

“How about,” he said when he opened them again, “I pay for something, and then use the restroom?”

 

Something felt like it was pulsating in his nether regions. That was never a good sign, nope, no siree. Well except sometimes, but that was a different story. This pulsing was definitely from his bladder-area, and very bad.

 

“See, now that wasn’t so hard.” Crowley gave this little crooked smile that said he was very obviously pleased at the turn of events and he was re-evaluating his earlier opinion of Sam. “If you’ll follow me, I’ll just seat you right over—”

 

“Can’t I just”—Sam made a few more desperate gestures before finally managing to articulate—“order here?”

 

Crowley frowned, and seemed to re-evaluate Sam for the third time in two minutes. “Yes,” he answered grudgingly. He poked at a pen and pad that stood at the host’s podium. “What’ll it be?”

 

“Whatever your special is,” Sam blurted.

 

“We have several specials for today.”

 

“Just pick one,” Sam begged.

 

His bladder felt like it was doing a cancan against his pelvis now.

 

“I’m afraid I—”

 

“The cheapest one,” Sam gritted out.

 

And it also felt like his pelvis was coated in _knives_.

 

Crowley gave him a stink eye for that. “Drink?”

 

Sam didn’t even wanna talk liquid at the moment.

 

“I don’t need—”

 

Crowley tsk’d and tapped his pen irritably against his pad. “If you’re using the restroom, you’re buying a meal.”

 

“But I work in a coffee shop—”

 

“ _Drink_ ,” the host pointedly interrupted him.

 

Sam wished then that his older, more violent brother were there because he was _sure_ Dean would make spaghetti of this motherf—

 

“ _Soda_. I don’t care what kind— _surprise_ me,” he snapped, chanting in his head to _not_ think about what form soda came in.

 

Something down south was _still_ pulsing. Probably bleeding now, too, thanks to those pelvis-knives.

 

“A root beer, then.”

 

“Root beer is _disgus—_ that’s fine,” Sam amended when he remembered he just cared about the restroom and not the food.

 

And then: “Okay, okay, uh, here, a twenty.” He fished the rumpled bill out of his pocket. “That’ll be enough, right? Okay, now I’m just going to head—”

 

Sam turned toward the restroom but that snobby British voice halted him yet again. “I don’t know what kind of piss-poor establishments you’ve been to, mate, but here we tend to pay after our meal, I believe?”

 

Sam sent Crowley a sour look. “Just—it’s to-go, okay?”

 

“Ah, well that would be just fine and dandy.”

 

Wonderful, fabulous. So Sam turned toward the bathroom agai—

 

“ _If_ ,” Crowley belatedly continued and Sam was _sure_ his bladder was going to explode, and his dick was, too—“we did take out.”

 

“Just keep it,” Sam desperately bargained, making vague waving gestures.

 

And now Crowley looked genuinely insulted. “We don’t cook our fine food to _throw it away_.”

 

“Then— _don’t._ I mean—there’s people who are starving on the—”

 

“And we do _not_ ,” Crowley interrupted yet again, “do charity for the homeless.”

 

May whatever god(s) that did or did not exist _have mercy on his soul—_

“Why _not_?”

 

Now he was going to start a philanthropic argument when he _just wanted to piss, goddammit._

 

“Then _they_ want to use the pisser!” Crowley groused. “We aren’t a _homeless shelter_. We run a _restaurant_.”

 

_Goddamn—_

 

“So what do I gotta _do_?” Sam near-about wailed hysterically. He was ready to sign his soul over if it meant open rights to a urinal at that moment. He’d even settle for a plant; anything so long as it wasn’t a _cup_.

 

“Eat!” Crowley exclaimed, gesturing to the pad with Sam’s order. “Just eat the food you’re paying for, and we’ll call it square.”

 

“I have to work, though!”

 

Crowley shrugged, lifting his hands again, though this time the gesture gave off a more _not my problem_ vibe. “Not eating, no food. No food, no pisser.”

 

“But—”

 

“No food,” Crowley cut him off coldly, “no pisser.”

 

Sam stared at the host for another few seconds, idly counting out all the ways he was violating probably every rule about customer service that existed. He eased his pain with thoughts of calling up the manager and filing a complaint.

 

None of this, however, emptied his bladder. And so finally, he threw his hands up and stomped towards the door.

 

“God _dam_ mit.”

 

XXX

 

“If you’re here for the ficus, I’m ready,” Balthazar greeted Sam not more than three minutes later, rolling up the magazine he was reading and slapping it threateningly against the edge of the counter he was leaning on.

 

“I don’t want your _flower_ —”

 

“It’s a _tree_ ,” Balthazar squawked defensively.

 

“—I just want to _piss_.”

 

“Well, sure, it may look like a scrawny bush at best right now, but just give it time to come out of its ugly duckling phase and—”

 

“Balthazar,” Sam interrupted, “I just—give it to me.”

 

“Why, Sam, I had no idea you thought of me that way—”

 

“You know what I mean.”

 

By the seven hells, Sam thought he’d just piss himself then and there, and he’d give no damns about the consequences.

 

“Afraid I don’t,” Balthazar drawled.

 

“The cup,” Sam gritted. “Just give it to me.”

 

The large glass cup in question sat next to Balthazar, and he picked it up with an expression of pure smug. “Ah, so now it’s good enough for you, eh?”

 

Sam ignored him and took the cup of shame, as it was now dubbed in his mind. He glanced around for lingering customers near the counter before murmuring, “Where do I—ya know—here?”

 

“Of _course_ not here.” Balthazar sounded outright scandalized. “I _am_ trying to run a business. I don’t want health violations! Over there!”

 

Sam looked to where his boss gestured. “That’s the storage closet.”

 

“And make sure not to splatter on the bags of coffee while you’re at it, yeah? Again—health violations. You’ll be cleaning up any mess that you make.”

 

With that, Balthazar turned his attention back to his magazine and Sam tried to casually walk over to the storage closet. Well, as casually as one could with a brightly colored glass in one hand. He’d gone into the closet tons of times to retrieve bags of coffee, cups, lids, napkins, and all kinds of other things. It was _normal_ for him to go into the closet, or so he told himself.

 

(Just not normal to piss in there.)

 

Sam turned, closed the door, locked it, and flicked on the light. The storage closet was small and cluttered, and Sam suddenly felt claustrophobic in the dingy room. It was awkward and uncomfortable arranging himself so that he could piss in the cup with as little mess as possible, but he somehow managed it.

 

… Except no matter how he relaxed his muscles or pushed, nothing happened.

 

Sam near about gave up on life then.

 

There was a sharp pain from his bladder, and for a moment Sam thought he broke it, but no, finally, _finally_ , it released and Sam leaned back against the door as a stream formed.

 

As he stood in the storage closet, pissing from a thankfully not broken bladder, Sam had to wonder where his life was that he worked in a café with a boss who apparently cared so little about health violations as to turn a storage room into a makeshift toilet.

 

XXX

 

After, Sam wasn’t sure what to do with the cup.

 

So he left it in the closet.

 

“You were supposed to dump it in the sink!” Balthazar whisper-snapped when he figured out that Sam came out of the closet empty-handed. “And then wash it down with hot water and soap!”

 

“I panicked!” Sam defended quietly. “Besides, how do I explain that if a customer saw! Piss is kinda uniquely colored and scented, you know!”

 

Balthazar looked ready to fire a retort, but the door’s bell jangled, and Sam turned to greet the new customer, only to have the smile fall from his face.

 

“I’ll get it later.” He turned to continue arguing with his boss.

 

“Better not be so much as a _drop_ spilled in there, you here?”

 

“Drop of what?”

 

“ _Nothing_ , Gabby,” Balthazar snapped to his cousin, who was suddenly leaning across the counter with an air of nonchalance.

 

“Aw, c’mon, what’s the big secret? Balthy? Sammy?” Gabriel darted his eyes between the two.

 

“Don’t _call_ me that,” Sam snapped at the same time Balthazar snorted:

 

“Piss off.”

 

Gabriel rolled his eyes. “Keep your secrets, then. Sam. Sam the man.”

 

“Don’t call me that either.”

 

“Moosey, then. Orwell is _just_ as fucked as King.”

 

Well, that was a nice, random statement.

 

“Where’s this coming from?”

 

“ _1984_.” And Gabe said it like that one word was supposed to explain all the questions of life.

 

But that was just the cause of more confusion. “Why are you talking about _1984_?”

 

Gabriel frowned. “You suggested it.”

 

“I sugges— _when_?”

 

Bigger frown. “Yesterday.”

 

Sam replayed the previous day in his mind and then repeated, “ _When_?”

 

The frown was turning into a glare. “You did that thing. Where you quote things. From books. And—”

 

“Wait, wait, wait. Are you telling me you read an entire book because I made a _passing reference_?”

 

Definitely a full on glare. “You’ve been suggesting all kinds of books for me to read recently—”

 

“I never suggested _anything_.”

 

“—but whatever. All that counts, Moosey, is that I read _1984_ , and damn, was that book _fucked_.”

 

“It’s sci-fi, Gabriel, of course it’s going to be odd.”

 

“Odd doesn’t _cover_ it. I mean—”

 

“I didn’t like the book,” Sam interrupted, not wanting to start another twenty minute rant like the _Carrie_ one had been.

 

“You… what?” And Gabe actually looked crestfallen.

 

“I didn’t like it,” Sam repeated. “Not my style.”

 

Gabriel may or may not have pouted; it was hard to tell with him.

 

“Usual?”

 

Some grumbling and a nod. “Same as ever.”

 

Gabriel laid the money on the counter and Sam took it, ringing up the order. Then, he scrubbed his hands raw and went about making the routine cappuccino, though found himself out of lids. He placed the cup next to the machines before turning to Gabriel.

 

“Out of lids. Gimme a sec.”

 

“I’ll be here all day, if that’s what you want.”

 

Sam ignored that and went for the storage closet. He nearly tripped over his cup of piss, and picked it up, deciding to empty it before a real accident happened. Lids in one hand, cup o’ piss in the other, Sam made his way back for the bar and set the cup down on the counter, intent on dumping it and sanitizing the area as soon as Gabriel was gone, before tearing open the package of lids.

 

“Where exactly do you keep the lids? China?”

 

“Hogwarts,” Sam shot back irritably. He then turned his back to Gabriel and dug out a lid, being graceful enough to use the hand that hadn’t been touching a piss cup to do so, seeing as he hadn’t yet washed his hands again.

 

Though making the casual reference to Hogwarts reminded him…

 

“Why are you suddenly interested in books anyway?” Sam asked, still not bothering to turn to face Gabriel. “I didn’t take you to be the kind of person to enjoy reading. So why read anything I’d recommend? Thought you didn’t even like… me…”

 

Sam turned, freshly capped cappuccino in one hand, and drifted off, frowning. Gabriel was already at the door, very clearly leaving.

 

He frowned, thinking that it was rather rude of Gabriel to just—

 

That’s when he noticed.

 

Gabriel was holding a cup. And it wasn’t the usual cream and buff color of the café’s logo, no. This was a brightly colored glass…

 

Panic rose in Sam as he darted a glance over to where the cup o’ piss—

 

No longer sat.

 

As if to confirm that Gabriel wasn’t holding a cup of coffee, but of urine, Sam looked down at the drink he still held, Gabriel’s usual.

 

Yeah, Gabriel totally took the cup of piss.

 

It was with horror that Sam looked back at his boss’ cousin, just in time to see him tip the cup up to his mouth, and—yeah, the sight was enough to make Sam’s gag reflex want to kick into gear—put the cup to his lips, taking a sip, curiously peering inside (Sam could only imagine Gabe was confused why his cappuccino was so salty this time around), and—

 

Promptly spewed it all across the sidewalk.

 

And then coughed.

 

Gagged.

 

Choked.

 

Died.

 

Or probably died. It wasn’t impossible to die from ingesting piss, though it usually didn’t happen after a mouthful. But choking like that sure was reason to suspect Sam was about to become a murderer.

 

Cold dread filled his stomach, because as obnoxious as Gabriel was, Sam would never dream of killing him. And yet that’s _exactly_ what he’d just done.

 

Or not. Because after several long seconds where Gabriel was spluttering so hard he was bent over, gripping his stomach with one arm and scrubbing out his mouth with the other hand, he stood up straight and turned to peer through the large glass front of the café. He shot a venomous glare at Sam the likes of which Sam had never seen before, despite having eyes so watery there were tears slipping out of them. All the glares Gabriel had sent him previously had so obviously been ones of playfulness because this look was one that made the hairs on the back of his neck rise.

 

Helplessly, Sam gestured as though trying to convey a message of _why would I give you a neon glass when the café serves paper cups to it’s customers I mean really this is your own stupid fault_. But guilt immediately attacked Sam afterwards and he remembered he was still holding Gabriel’s cappuccino, so he gestured with that hand as if urging _come and get your actual order_ in something of a weak peace offering.

 

Sam’s guilt, if possible, intensified when Gabriel ignored him and stomped away.

 

XXX

 

On his day off, Sam didn’t even pop in the café  to say hi to Alfie (who usually worked when Sam wasn’t) like he usually did. Instead he hid under his blankets all day and rolled in guilt. Had he the balls, he would’ve marched with Dean to the house where Castiel, and by default Gabriel, lived and apologized.

 

Instead, he left bed only to use the pisser and sneakily make a sandwich before returning to his guilt nest.

 

XXX

 

It was Castiel his first day back, not Gabriel. Sam wasn’t sure what to make of that, because Castiel showed up suspiciously close to the usual time Gabriel usually came to torment the café. And it felt a bit like Gabriel was sending his younger brother to land the final attack.

 

“Hi, Cas,” Sam greeted weakly. The look Castiel was giving him made him feel more and more terrible. Castiel was totally judging him. Or maybe he was just awkwardly staring at Sam—honestly, sometimes it was hard to tell with him.

 

“Sam,” Castiel greeted in turn. “How are you?”

 

Sam couldn’t help but curse Cas’ polite streak. It was absolutely impossible to gauge the state of their relationship concerning Gabriel when he did that.

 

“Oh, I’m fine.” Or as fine as Sam, scarred from watching another man drink his piss, could be in such circumstances. Golden showers were _definitely_ scribbled from his to do list. “Uh, you’ve been good?”

 

“Yes, very,” Cas replied immediately.

 

And then they stared at each other for a long moment.

 

“Uh.”

 

More staring.

 

“Well,” Sam tried again.

 

And Castiel just blinked.

 

“Are you going to—order something…?” Sam hesitantly asked, feeling almost as though he were in the wrong for doing so; like he was pressuring Castiel in a way that would earn him a special place in hell.

 

“Oh. Oh, yes. A mocha frappe. Large. Please.”

 

Sam shuffled in place before looking down at the counter and muttering, “Gabriel’s okay… right?”

 

Castiel was quiet for an anxiety-attack inducing long time before finally: “He wasn’t poisoned or anything.”

 

Oh. Well good to know Sam’s body didn’t produce a deadly toxin.

 

“But he’s…?”

 

Castiel shot him a sympathetic look. “Sam, he wasn’t hospitalized or anything. He’s fine.”

 

Oh, good.

 

But then, as if suddenly it was time to kick Sam around like a puppy, he continued, “I think he was a bit upset, though.”

 

Sam squirmed before bursting out, “It was an accident, okay? I mean, I would never—I mean, it was a misunderstanding—I would _never_ —”

 

He broke off into more incoherent splutterings, making more desperate hand gestures, retelling the story in full with said gestures, all the way from staying up to read Stephen King and the four coffees to Balthazar defending his ficus’ honor and the glass. If Castiel didn’t understand the hand puppet show, he didn’t say, but politely watched from beginning to end, his expression a mix between perplexed and fascinated.

 

“So what happened to the spider?” Castiel asked when Sam was done.

 

“The…?” There was a spider in his story?

 

Castiel made a gesture similar to one in Sam’s show.

 

“Oh, the ficus.” Sam pointed to the corner where Balthazar’s precious bush-tree lived.

 

“Interesting.”

 

Sam wasn’t sure what was interesting, or how Castiel interpreted the story that he thought Balthazar was passionate about a spider, but he had other things to worry about at the moment.

 

“I think,” Castiel began without preamble, still eyeing the ficus, “that my brother is just upset because he believed you maliciously pranked him. Since then, I think he’s calmed down and realized that isn’t the case. I’m sure he doesn’t blame you, Sam.”

 

Sam’s face was still stuck in its perplexed expression from when Castiel asked about the spider—seriously, this kid needed to not bounce from one thought to another like a pair of Sock’em Boppers on an ADHD kid’s hands. It took him a moment to catch up.

 

“So… will he ever be back?”

 

Castiel was taken aback. Then he must’ve realized what Sam meant. “Ah. Sorry, no. I didn’t mean to make this seem like Gabe was never coming back. He passed out sometime early last night, and slept the day away today. He’s been reading”—and here Castiel’s expression looked startled when he said the word, like a demon had possessed him long enough to throw that verb in there, because obviously Gabriel and reading didn’t belong in the same sentence unless a _not_ was in the middle somewhere—“and hasn’t slept in days. I think.”

 

Sam wasn’t sure what to say to that. So instead he made Castiel’s large mocha frappe and handed it over.

 

Castiel took a sip. “Delicious, Sam. Thank you.”

 

“Yeah, sure,” Sam said, like he wasn’t obliged to make all his customers a drink by company policy.

 

“You said that was the ficus?” Castiel pointed to the shabby tree-bush.

 

And okay, random again. “Yes?”

 

“Thank you. Goodbye.”

 

Uh…

 

“Bye…”

 

Castiel walked over to the plant to observe it for reasons beyond Sam.

 

Okay. Sure.

 

XXX

 

It couldn’t have been more than ten seconds after Castiel was gone from Sam’s view of the side walk outside of the coffee shop when Dean tromped in. He strolled up to the counter like he owned the joint, but that was just how Dean was, and Sam did _not_ miss the glances Dean shot around that were probably supposed to be surreptitious.

 

“Is this the Manson home or what?”

 

Balthazar, who had been sitting at his usual table off to the side, reading his magazine, peered over his pages before scowling and rolling his magazine up as he had before when defending his ficus’ purity, but this time his target was clearly Dean and not Sam. Sam could only feel grateful at that. It was a hard life fearing for your body’s health thanks to the threatening presence of a magazine.

 

“Dean.”

 

“How does it feel working for Gordon Ramsey, Sammy?” Dean turned towards Balthazar and went on: “Hey, you know you don’t pull off the British, Angry, and Brooding as well, though, right?”

 

From beside them came a very distinct threatening _smack!_ of a rolled magazine on the edge of a table.

 

“Dean.”

 

Dean brushed some invisible dirt from the counter and frowned. “Look at this, Sammy. This place is dirty enough to be a hippie joint, too.”

 

Another distinct _smack!_ from the side.

 

“Dean,” Sam tried yet again. “Just… he isn’t here.”

 

 “Who isn’t?”

 

Dean played nonchalant like no other, but Sam saw right through his brother’s acting.

 

“Cas.” Sam waited a moment to see if his brother would react, but there wasn’t much of one, not even an eye bat. Which was disappointing, really, but Sam continued anyway: “Just missed him, though. Might be able to catch up with him if you hurried. He turned out of here like he was heading home.”

 

Dean leveled his brother with a good impression of a bitch face. “Sam, I don’t need you helping me keep tabs on my best friend.”

 

Sam returned Dean’s look with a dubious one.

 

“ _Aside_ from that, I wasn’t looking for him. But thanks. I guess.” Then he coughed out: “Stalker.”

 

“Any time.”

 

Sam waited a moment, but Dean didn’t move. Figuring he needed some brotherly encouragement: “Shoo, Dean, your prince is waiting for you.”

 

 _That_ got a scowl out of Dean. It was odd watching a man glare so vehemently that surely he could melt metal with its intensity whilst simultaneously fighting off a blush.

 

“Cas isn’t—I’m not— _he’s_ not—”

 

Deciding his blathering wasn’t helping anything, Dean stopped short and spat out, “I’m here for coffee.”

 

Sam may have idolized his brother (at least growing up; now Sam wondered what inspired that bout of insanity when he was younger, or if there had been something in the water), but not even the holiest of saints could’ve resisted mocking Dean for that one.

 

“From a hippie infested coffee house? A disgustingly dirty one, at that? One which you went out of your way to insult only moments ago? You want coffee from _that_ coffee house?”

 

“I like my coffee black just like my metal,” Dean sang.

 

“Never,” Sam began, only able to think of the shop’s subtitle which he would really like to pretend didn’t exist, and wondering if he could bleach his memory somehow, “do that again. What do you want?”

 

“Smoothie. A, um”—Dean’s eyes flicked to the menu and skipped around until they landed on something that made a grin break out on his face—“bery berry smoothie. Extra—what does that say?—raspberries? And lots of whipped cream.”

From beside them was a snort and a muttered, “Glutton.”

 

“Really.” And Sam said it in such a way that the _a bery berry fruit smoothie with extra raspberries and whipped cream, Dean? Really? Maybe Cas is prince to your princess_ was implied.

 

“Really really.”

 

Sam decided not to question it further and prepared a smoothie with extra raspberries, and then even more per Dean’s polite request (“Hey! Don’t gyp me!). He made sure to put on as much whipped cream as was possible, and then when Dean requested even more (“You call that _extra_ whipped cream? What are you, the whipped cream police, Sammy? I think you can afford to be a bit more liberal!”), sighed (“Whipped cream police, Dean? _Really_?”), and put a dollop more on.

 

“Thanks, Sammy.” Dean took a generous swallow and hummed in appreciation. Then he patted his pockets and frowned. Patted them some more and sent his younger brother a sheepish grin.

 

“I think I forgot my wallet.”

 

Sam rolled his eyes to the ceiling, exasperated. “Figures.”

 

Balthazar made another threatening noise with his magazine, and Sam momentarily wondered if Balthazar thought he was some tough gang leader, chasing people down to repay their debts, all armed with few rolled up sheets of paper.

 

“Whatever,” he sighed. “I got it.”

 

“Thanks, baby bro,” Dean called over his shoulder as he left.

 

Balthazar grumbled and resumed reading, while Sam couldn’t help notice that Dean left the opposite way he’d come.

 

Towards Castiel’s house.

 

XXX

 

The next day was perhaps the first time Sam was happy to see Gabriel come in to the coffee house. Sam was so unused to being excited about the shorter man’s presence that he didn’t know the protocol for such things. Previously, he had done everything possible to ignore the other man’s existence and shoo him along as soon as possible. He felt like he shouldn’t stare as Gabriel approached the counter, because how odd was that, and what if he broke out into a relieved grin? Or worse, started tearing up? Sam didn’t realize it before, but the amount of guilt he felt was probably comparable to what he’d have if he’d just done something extraordinarily horrific, like caused the apocalypse.

 

Which was silly, of course, because it wasn’t even technically _Sam’s_ fault that Gabriel had just taken the first container with liquid in sight and assumed it was for him.

 

In any case, Sam grabbed a rag and started wiping at the counter as a means of distraction. He realized as soon as it splattered onto the counter that he had used it to clean off the coffee bags on display of some sickly kid’s snot and boogers (“Don’t look at my child that way! He has severe asthma and allergies!” the mother had snarled at Sam when Sam asked the kid to stop touching the displays). He then turned away to look for a clean rag so he could actually wipe the counter off because, um, _ew_.

 

“Sam.”

 

Sam jerked and hit his head on the counter he had been bending under.

 

“Cas,” he yelped. He glanced around in search of Gabriel, but he must’ve secretly been a magician and made himself disappear because there wasn’t any sign of him.

 

“Sam,” Castiel repeated.

 

“What are you doing here?”

 

Castiel looked confused. “I wanted another mocha frappe. I had assumed the people sitting around the room with drinks of their own, as well as the large fluorescent sign outside that says _open_ , meant that it was still business hours.”

 

“No, I mean, where’s Gabriel?”

 

Castiel, if possible, looked more baffled. “Gabriel?”

 

“Yes, I—I mean.”

 

What did Sam mean? He made a vague gesture that was supposed to imply something along the lines of, _I swear I just saw him not even ten seconds ago and unless he’s a hella good cosplayer I highly doubt you’re him so I mean you’ve seen him right?_

Deciding to condense that thought into a single word, Sam tried again: “Gabriel?”

 

Castiel looked rather concerned at that point and less baffled. “What about him?”

 

Well okay then.

 

“… Never mind. Never mind. Okay. What did you want?”

 

Castiel watched him carefully. He looked as if he thought Sam was a bomb that had been about to go off, but deactivated at the last second. And yet despite that, it looked as though he were leery as to whether or not Sam still had a chance of detonating.

 

Before he could reply, however, Dean strolled up, and Sam should’ve figured that he’d see his brother. As of late, wherever Castiel went, Dean was sure to follow. They were Siamese twins like that.

 

“Sammy! Cas! Fancy meeting you here.”

 

“I work here,” Sam petulantly reminded his brother at the same time Castiel said:

 

“Yes, what a surprise.”

 

“The fool,” Dean began suddenly, his attention on Castiel, and Sam definitely thought Dean was going to make some half-assed joke and was therefore surprised when the rest of the sentence ended with: “has _got_ to be the only sane one around.”

 

For a moment, Sam thought maybe Dean was referring to someone in the room. For another moment, humored the idea that it was Sam he was referencing, before wondering if Dean was talking about himself…?

 

“Ah, yes,” Castiel continued the conversation. “The fool has often been speculated to be the only one with any sense of wisdom. An ironic touch, if you will.”

 

And then Sam started to wonder if they were speaking in some vague form of pig Latin because they seemed to understand each _other_ , yet Sam understood nothing.

 

“The fool should’ve been king, damn,” Dean snorted.

 

And really.

 

“The fact that the fool advised the King is testimony as to how ironic everything was.” Castiel nodded solemnly.

 

No, really.

 

“Also, when advising the king, I liked how he went from speaking in riddles to wise advice. I just—wow.”

 

What even.

 

“I especially liked that, too,” Castiel agreed enthusiastically. “I mean, I thought it was so clever how it was all executed on the fool’s part. It was as though the fool was disguising his advice by speckling riddles that were so ridiculous they were almost gibberish with these… beautiful insights. And foreshadowing! I found it—”

 

And that was the end of whatever broken English they were speaking. No, literally after the word _it_ , Sam understood not a syllable more. He’d never know what Castiel found _it_ to be, but could only hope it was something good.

 

He gaped rather openly at the two, both of whom seemed to have forgotten he even existed. He tried a few more times to make heads or tails of their conversation before deciding he would have better luck making them coffee and shooing them away before they hurt his brain too much.

 

So he made Castiel’s mocha frappe, and just made another smoothie for Dean, same way as he had before. And if Dean didn’t like it he could blame only himself for not taking a second to speak a language Sam could understand and give him some instruction on what he wanted. Sam did not understand gobbledygook, and that was clearly what Dean was currently speaking, so.

 

It was when he placed the drinks in front of his brother and his brother’s best friend that he caught and understood a few words of their conversation. _Cordelia_ popped up quite a bit, as did _Edmund_ and _Goneril_ and _Regan._

 

Those words sounded vaguely familiar, so Sam did a little digging in that brain of his, found some search results in the “names” category, ran through the file, and…

 

“ _King Lear_.”

 

Miracle of miracles, somehow his speaking broke the two out of their fervent discussion.

 

“What was that?” Castiel asked, polite as ever. He then noticed the drink on the counter and dug out his money.

 

On autopilot, Sam took it and poked at the register. “You. You were talking about _King Lear_.”

 

“Why, yes.” Castiel looked pleased. “I was reading it and Dean decided to, as well.”

 

“Did he now.” Sam looked at his brother, who seemed more interested in slurping his smoothie and making appreciative noises than anything else.

 

“Very much so,” Castiel assured before pointing to a table. “I’ll be over there. Nice seeing you, Sam.”

 

“Same,” Sam agreed, all the while pinning his older brother with a _look_. “So now we read Shakespeare?”

 

“Hey now, Betty Crocker. If you’re allowed to cook, I’m allowed to read.”

 

And Santa Claus was allowed to get drunk and frisky. Still, you didn’t see old men dressed as Santa running around after women—actually, you sometimes did, and it was followed by as much scandal as Sam felt right then at the thought that Dean actually read _King Lear_.

 

“But _Shakespeare_? Dean, you refused to read that in high school— _I_ had to write those essays for you.”

 

Dean shot Sam a sour look before checking to make sure Castiel was out of earshot.

 

“He likes it,” Dean grumbled, “so I figured I’d try it.”

 

“Yes, and I like quantum physics, but I don’t see you asking _me_ about it.”

 

“I _like_ Shakespeare,” he snapped back. “I just… I didn’t pay enough attention to understand it in high school, okay? I just… _get_ it with Cas. It’s, like… dark… and creepy… and cool.”

 

“Dark,” Sam repeated. “And creepy. And cool. What are you, an eighth grade emo chick? In all your twenty-two years, you’ve never even looked twice at Shakespeare.”

 

Dean scowled. “It’s just—Cas _makes_ me—I mean—we do this thing—”

 

Actually, no. Sam didn’t want to hear anymore because this sounded like it was fast approaching the dangerous valley between Didn’t Need to Hear That Mountain and Dude, You’re Not Supposed to Say That to Your Brother Cliff.

 

“Okay, okay,” he cut in. “I believe you. Just… shoo. Go flirt over Shakespeare somewhere else.”

 

Dean spluttered and squawked. But Sam didn’t pay much attention because he was suddenly distracted by Gabriel, who appeared as quickly as he disappeared. And he was so coming for the counter.

 

“You didn’t add extra raspberries, did you, Sam?” Dean whined after taking a sip of his smoothie. He was looking calculatingly at his drink as he spoke, as though if he stared long enough he could figure out its exact fruity make up.

 

Sam shot Dean and his froo froo drink a look before shooting back, “You’re both fruity enough as it is. Go, shoo, Cas is waiting for you.”

 

Sam earned a glare for that, but Dean obediently scuttled away.

 

“Sammy, my boy,” Gabriel greeted seconds later, and something akin to relief fluttered in Sam’s stomach that Gabriel was still calling him stupid names.

 

“Gabriel.”

 

Sam noticed that Gabriel looked much better than he had in previous days. He was very obviously well rested, and Sam was even more relieved to know that Castiel had been telling the truth. Gabriel didn’t avoid the coffee shop because he was mad, but conked out catching up on some z’s.

 

Even drowning in relief that Gabriel wasn’t super pissed off, Sam thought it was still extraordinarily awkward to try to interact with him, and Sam suspected he might still be irritated about what happened. Rather unsure how to even _try_ to initiate conversation—because really what was there to say other than to doubtfully ask _you’re not into urophilia, are you?_ —Sam just began the motions of making Gabriel’s usual cappuccino.

 

As he did so, he realized part of why he had no idea how to interact with Gabriel was because he didn’t really do it that often. Gabriel usually initiated conversations with him, not the other way around. And, huh, odd. Every time Gabriel ever visited the café he made sure to have at least a small conversation with Sam that didn’t revolve around coffee. In fact, Sam could go so far as to say that Gabriel was his only regular.

 

“Soooo, Sammy boy,” Gabriel started when Sam placed the cup on the counter in front of him, “what if I wasn’t feeling a cappuccino today?”

 

The desire to scoff about how Gabriel _always_ got a cappuccino arose, but he swallowed it to mutter instead, “…were you?”

 

“Nope. I want the tooty fruity drink ol’ Dean-o’s chugging down over there.” He gestured to where their brothers were sitting and chatting.

 

Dean snarled a nice expletive at Gabriel for that before resuming his conversation with Castiel.

 

Gabriel chortled merrily and Sam cleared his throat. “On the house. Don’t worry about it. I can make you a… bery berry smoothie with extra raspberries with _lots_ of whipped cream if you want.”

 

“There’s lots of things I want, Moosey. For now, you aren’t going to help me with them.”

 

Sam wasn’t even sure if there was a response to that. …Gesundheit?

 

“Actually, there is,” Gabriel continued with barely any pause, apparently oblivious to Sam’s confusion. “I just gotta ask.”

 

And after a long, dramatic sip of his cappuccino, Gabriel continued, “Why did you piss in a glass?”

 

Sam’s breath left him in a whoosh at the unexpected question, but then he found himself babbling, driven by guilt and shame. And it was a good thing there weren’t any customers waiting in line or sitting too close to the counter. Sam probably wouldn’t have cared if he emotionally scarred them with the tale of his horrors or irritated them and made them wait in line for a good long while as he told this story that used perhaps overly-dramatic gestures and motions and lots of terrified and wide-eyed expressions as well as a great deal of scowling and bitch facing.

 

And it was in such a manner that Sam confessed the full story to Gabriel, from its start ( _Carrie_ and the four large coffees that were _totally_ not a good idea but necessary, hear me?) all the way to its ugly end (Balthy—don’t let him know I call him that—defending his ficus with a magazine and pissing in a cup in a moment of insanity-driven desperation that wasn’t a good idea in hindsight, and maybe getting in trouble with a cop for public indecency would’ve been a better idea, but desperation, remember?).

 

Gabriel, for his part, seemed honestly enthralled with the story, and his face pulled expressions Sam wasn’t sure were possible before. And Sam momentarily wondered if Gabriel was perhaps a _bit_ too enthralled because Sam had yet to know a story about piss to be fascinating, but to each his own.

 

 “So I should be blaming Balthy—we all call him that, by the way,” Gabriel concluded.

 

Sam was sure that despite wherever Balthazar disappeared to, he was thinking about rolling in the grave he wasn’t in yet.

 

“Blame him,” Sam repeated slowly. He wasn’t sure what logic Gabriel was running on, but it wasn’t the same stuff Sam used.

 

Somewhere in his peripheral vision, Sam saw Castiel stand and throw away his empty cup before leaving. Sam broke off any question he may have been about to ask Gabriel in favor of watching his own brother suck down a smoothie so fast he turned blue in the face from his lack of pausing to breathe (and then claw at his throat and temples at the resulting brain freeze), and chucking the cup from halfway across the café and making a break after Castiel.

 

Dean’s empty cup missed the trash and Sam glared at it, then after his departing brother. He was already going through the door, so there was no real reason in yelling after him, but…

 

“They need to just bang already.”

 

Sam shot Gabriel a surprised look, having forgotten the other man’s presence in his litter-hating moment. “Who?”

 

The look Gabriel shot him for that…

 

Sam tried to look scandalized on the behalf of his brother’s questioned heterosexuality, but failed. Probably because Sam had already had the same thought over a dozen times.

 

“Probably sometime around the beginning of their friendship they started giving each other doe eyes, and it’s almost sickening watching my brother chase your brother, and your brother chase my brother,” Gabriel deadpanned. “They need to just bang and get it over with. Sometimes it’s just _painful_ to watch two people interact when they want to do the horizontal tango.”

 

And the look he shot Sam very clearly said _you better know what I mean because that was a double entendre._

 

But Sam didn’t know what Gabriel meant because Sam was too busy trying to ready a remark that was snarky yet not deprecating on his brother’s behalf. Gabriel didn’t even allow him the time to fully think one through before continuing. He straightened rather suddenly and snapped his fingers before:

 

“Oh! Know who else needs laid?”

 

And Sam didn’t even get a chance to—

 

“Voldie-ass!”

 

Voldie-what.

 

“Voldie-wha—”

 

“Oh, _puh-leez_. You think he’d’ve gone off and gone darkside if he’d had some snookie every night? Obviously he’s a passive aggressive virgin taking his sexual frustrations out on others. Except less passive and more aggressive. Didn’t Freud write about that? Something about if sexual gratification isn’t given to a maturing child, they grow up obsessed with that lack of gratification and it manifests in some sort of behavior? Maybe there’s a stage in that theory that involves psychopathic tendencies manifesting when a man is a virgin for too long.”

 

And Sam just stared. Because what.

 

Just _what_.

 

 _What was Gabriel even saying_.

 

“What are you even _say_ —?”

 

“A lack of good snookie is enough to make anyone go crazy, Sam,” Gabriel said seriously, making very oddly timed eye contact.

 

Sam tried to say something but wound up opening his mouth and croaking, his words too confused to even try to come out and confront the object of their befuddlement.

 

“I personally think Snape would’ve been wild in the bed. I’d say Harry but he’s a bit young yet. Makes sense, though, doesn’t it? Obsessed with killing the kid cuz he wants ‘im but is ashamed of his pedophilia so he wants to kill the thing that gives him pedophiliac urges. Oh, didn’t Freud write about that, too? Psychological projection? Or wait, no, was that a different theory?” Gabriel paused to roll his eyes up in thought and tap his fingers against his cappuccino in thought.

 

And Sam just stared. Because what.

 

Snape. Harry.

 

Just _what_.

 

“Anywho,” Gabriel exclaimed abruptly, snapping back to attention. “I’m definitely keeping track of all the times Voldie and good ol’ Harry are put in sexual circumstances. I see why the series is so popular—it’s basically a passive aggressive porno.”

 

And with that Gabriel saluted and left, sipping at his cappuccino.

 

It took Sam about three minutes for his brain to ctrl + alt + delete and restart. It took him another to realize Gabriel had been talking about the _Harry Potter_ series and another two to break down Gabriel’s babbling and comprehensive theories. About ten seconds after that, he realized Gabriel was just outright insane.

 

But _that_ wasn’t new.

 

XXX

 

The next day was another day off for Sam and thank _God_ for that because Sam couldn’t even fathom facing more of Gabriel’s crazy literary theories. So instead Sam lazed around his room, being the teenager he was, and sleeping half the day away before waking up long enough to crawl downstairs and find something with enough nutritional value to satisfy a part of the food pyramid’s daily requirements. He settled on a Pop-Tart because it had fruit and bread, and those were important. And even though the fruit came in a sugary-paste form and the bread was more like toasted sugar cake with crystallized sugar on top in the form of icing, it was still fruit and bread, and those were important. Or so he told himself.

 

He then started re-reading the first _Harry Potter_ because no way in hell could any of Gabriel’s theories hold weight to them.

 

He was just at the part when Voldemort confronted Harry in the Dark Forest and acting creepy and was trying to figure it that could be construed as _sexual_ when his bedroom door burst open. Sam jumped so high he thought he’d hit his head on the roof.

 

“ _Gabe_!” Sam yelled a bit too loudly, compensating his earlier terror for anger. “What are you—”

 

“Figured it out, Moosey.”

 

And Gabriel said it like he was Stephen Hawking and had just stumbled over the missing variable to the theory of general relativity.

 

“Figured it—figured _what_ —”

 

His unwelcome house guest grabbed the computer chair from Sam’s desk and sat down on it, backwards to boot, like he thought he just owned the place. “It wasn’t Freud’s theory of psychological projection. It was his theory of displacement.”

 

And Sam just stared. Because what.

 

“Maybe Voldie felt so ashamed of his pedophiliac nature he sent his younger self to molest Harry because it’s not _as_ bad to lust after a twelve year old if you’re still a teenager—I think that’s likely. What do you think?” (But Gabriel didn’t pause for reply from Sam, so obviously he didn’t want to know what Sam thought.) “But even his younger self felt too ashamed at his urges that he lashed out. And things just got ugly from there. Also, Voldie was highly turned on at the idea of sharing snake fetishes. They both had a thing for snakes. I can totally see them using snakes in bed together.”

 

Sam’s brain struggled to keep up.

 

“Though I still say Snape is _wild_ in the sack. It’s always the smart ones who make for the sexy bastards. Didn’t someone say that brainy is the new sexy? I’ll definitely agree with that. And wasn’t he some kind of potions genius? Deeeefinitely a wild card.”

 

“You’re talking about _Harry Potter,_ right?” Sam finally managed to say. “Why are you… why would you… what kind of _fucked up_ —Voldie— _Voldemort_ isn’t—”

 

But Sam didn’t even know where to _start_ with debauching Gabriel’s theories.

 

So, instead, he decided not to bother.

 

“What are you doing here.” And with how flatly said that was, it wasn’t even a question.

 

“Oh, Sammy, I already told you. I figured out what psychological theory I was thinking of.”

 

Yes, of course. Obviously. How silly Sam didn’t realize that earlier, especially considering Gabriel had _never even been in Sam’s house before._

 

“How did you even get _in_ here?”

 

If Gabriel had a secret key…

 

“Your brother, obviously.”

 

Brother?

 

That _traitor._

 

“And yes, by the way,” Gabriel said suddenly.

 

And yes _what_? What this time? Did Sam even want to know? No, that wasn’t a question—of _course_ he didn’t even want to know.

 

“Yes _what_ ,” Sam snarled, obviously going against his better judgment.

 

“You can call me Gabe,” his visitor replied, grinning.

 

“What?”

 

“You called me that when I came in,” Gabriel replied, spinning on Sam’s computer chair. “You’re allowed to call me that. You haven’t before.”

 

Ah-huh.

 

“ _Gabe_ ,” Sam ground out.

 

The man in question stopped spinning and beamed. “Yes?”

 

“ _Get. Out._ ”

 

“But I just got here, Moosey. One does not simply leave after just arriving.”

 

“One does not simply walk into Mordor,” Sam corrected. “One can _certainly_ leave after just arriving, and in this case, one certainly _will_ before I start throwing things.”

 

Gabriel threw his head back and groaned. “No, you _can’t_ go throwing more book references around. You gotta slow down, tiger. I can barely keep up with you.”

 

Sam’s irritated look turned perplexed.

 

“But _fiiiine_ ,” the other man whined. “I’ll leave if you want.”

 

And with some grumbles, Gabriel did just that.

 

Sam stared for a while, baffled that it was that easy to rid himself of the pest. But he said nothing and tried to continue reading, and tried to convince himself he didn’t want to call Gabriel back over to demand he break down his crazy theories so Sam might understand them because _what_.

 

He might have failed.

 

XXX

 

“Dean informs me”—and here Castiel lowered his voice and leaned over his mocha frappe—“you work in a hippie joint.”

 

Sam’s eyes immediately flew to Balthazar, and really, one would think Castiel knew better than to say such things right in front of his cousin.

 

“No, Cas, Dean was, uh. Well, being Dean.”

 

Castiel frowned. “I don’t understand Dean’s problem with hippies to begin—”

 

Sam jumped and Castiel drifted off when Gabriel appeared out of no where and slammed his arm on the counter much louder than necessary, making the displays rattle and Balthazar shoot them a sharp look.

 

“I think everyone wants Harry’s ass,” he began unceremoniously, and Sam just—what—how—

 

“His godfather, his godfather’s werewolf friend. Hell, probably good ol’ Snape. And can’t forget Voldie.”

 

Castiel and Sam stared at Gabriel, though probably for different reasons.

 

“I still say he and Voldie share some snake fetish, and all this could be resolved in bed—”

 

“Is this a porn you’re referring to?” Castiel politely inquired, and Sam took a moment to appreciate how casually Castiel asked that, like it was an everyday conversation where they came from, before saying:

 

“Please tell me you aren’t serious.”

 

“Maybe Dumbly-bore is in on it, too. Wasn’t there a rumor that he’s gay…?”

 

“That’s not just a ru— Gabriel.” Sam pinched the bridge of his nose.

 

“I told you to call me Gabe.”

 

“ _Gabe_ ,” Sam ground out. “None of the adults are lusting after Harry.”

 

“Voldie’s just suffering from displacement—”

 

“ _No one_ is suffering from displacement.”

“Well I dunno about the werewolf and the others, but Voldie-ass sure as hell is—”

 

Sam rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “Your theory doesn’t even make _sense_. There is no evidence that supports any sexual attraction on Voldemort’s part—”

 

“Because he represses and—repeat after me, Sammy boy— _displaces_ —”

 

“Show me one place you can honestly say he displaces any sexual frustration on Harry and I’ll be sold on your theory.”

 

Gabriel looked like the cat who’d caught the canary. “You’re _on_.”

 

That settled, Sam asked, “Usual?”

 

“Usual,” Gabriel agreed.

 

Sam whipped up a cappuccino and traded it to the shorter man, who saluted and beat a hasty retreat, howling about how Sam was going to rue the day he ever thought to challenge Gabriel’s intellect and theories.

 

“You… were conversing about _Harry Potter_ … right?” Castiel questioned suddenly once it was quiet again, and holy shit, Sam nearly forgot he was there.

 

“Oh, yeah. Gabe’s reading them.”

 

Castiel stared at Sam as though if he stared long enough, all the answers to the universe would unravel in Sam’s hair.

 

Castiel picked up his mocha frappe and finally said, “Okay,” before leaving without warning.

 

… Okay.

 

XXX

 

The next day Sam decided the reason why he hadn’t thrown himself over the counter and throttled Gabriel was because as _much_ as it pained him, he’d grown fond of Gabriel. After thinking about it, he decided it was probably some kind of piss link. It was impossible to have a man drink your piss and _not_ grow a bit fond of him. Perhaps it was the result of guilt, but as irritated as Sam got when it came to Gabriel, the urge to creatively draw and quarter him just no longer existed.

 

 _Except_ , perhaps, on occasion when _Harry Potter_ was brought up.

 

“—and that’s when Harry would go down on him.”

 

Sam shot a glance around and was thankful no customers were in ear shot. “Lower your voice,” he hissed. “There are innocent civilians—”

 

“I think Harry would be surprisingly good at phalacio,” Gabriel mused.

 

Sam shot another desperate look around. “Gabe, we are going to _stop_ talking about this right now, and then we’re going to pretend we never had this—”

 

“I still think snakes would be involved. Or maybe they use snakes as a euphemism for the word _dick_. ‘You rub my snake and I’ll rub yours’ type thing.”

 

“Gabe, stop now—”

 

“I think it’d be angry sex,” Gabriel continued anyway. “You know, maybe after Cedarcliffe or whoever it is dies—”

 

“Cedric,” Sam corrected despite deciding they weren’t going to talk about it anymore.

 

“Yeah, him. After he dies, and there’s a showdown of a kind between Voldie and Harry, it isn’t his parents who come back from beyond the veil and save him—how gayballs is that?—but instead Harry just leaps at Voldie and Voldie decides enough and enough and they go at it right then and there. Just picture it—”

 

Oh god—

 

“ _No_.”

 

“—rolling around, ripping at each other’s clothes to the point that they start to tear off—”

 

“ _Stop it_.”

 

“—eventually turning to rough, animalistic sex. Hard thrusts, loud grunts—”

 

“ _Gabriel._ ”

 

Despite fighting it off, he was picturing it. Except oddly enough, the people in his mind changed every time they rolled over, and before long it wasn’t Voldie— _Voldemort_ ; god, Gabriel was wearing off on him—and Harry, but two people who looked suspiciously familiar. One short, one tall, both brown haired and—

 

Shit, shit, shit, shit, _shit_ , he was not thinking about himself with Gabriel. He was not, he was not, he was _not_.

 

“—and there we have it: gratification,” Gabriel finished.

 

“ _Oh, god_ ,” Sam whimpered, not sure if it was at Gabriel’s words or his thoughts.

 

“How much you wanna bet round two would’ve been just as—”

 

“Shut _up_ ,” Sam groaned, hiding his eyes (and maybe a blush) behind a hand. “Just—usual, right?”

 

Sam fumbled through making a cappuccino and Gabriel was done talking so _why weren’t the images leaving his head_? He did _not_ want to stand around thinking of himself with Gabriel, no he didn—

 

Something stirred in his belly and horror struck him.

 

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Gabriel quipped when he turned to hand the drink off.

 

“Just—” Sam didn’t even know what to say, so he fell back on making something of a shoo’ing gesture.

 

“Party pooper.” But Gabriel left without much complaint—just his usual flare for the dramatic making him swear to convert Sam to the Voldie-ass-Harry side—and.

 

The images were still playing in Sam’s mind and he needed to _stop_ them because he was getting warmer and warmer and this was. This was _unwelcome_. This was. This was…

 

… a can of worms Sam never thought he’d open.

 

“Taking my break,” Sam tossed to Balthazar (who may or may not have called out, “Didn’t you already take it? Oy, don’t ignore me!”) before realizing he didn’t really have anywhere he could go to have a panic attack. So he settled on the storage closet and did his best to crouch in the cramped space.

 

He, Sam Winchester, valedictorian and Harvard-bound student (possibly even with a full scholarship with how things were looking), lusted over Gabriel, a man who was—hell, what—three years or more Sam’s senior? Shit, did Sam even know anything about him?

 

He was rude. He was crass. He was downright vulgar sometimes. He was short.

 

Those were all negative features, though. Gabriel had some good to him, didn’t he?

 

Positive things, positive things, positive…

 

He was caring. Despite his questionable character, he was oddly sweet. He’d taken care of Castiel ever since their parents died, and that wasn’t something all brothers did. And he was… uh…

 

Was that really all Sam knew about him? Sam didn’t even know exactly how much older than Sam he was or what he did for a living. Yet he—what—lusted after him at least. Apparently. If his imagination—which was _still_ rolling, by the way—was anything to go by. Sam sincerely hoped that was all it was, lust. Because really, the alternative—

 

Sam groaned.

 

He was so fucked. And not by Gabriel, or vice versa, as much as his imagination played it out.

 

He groaned again, the sound of a broken man.

 

XXX

 

If Sam didn’t know the protocol on how to act around Gabriel when he was excited to see Gabriel, Sam was even more hopeless after realizing—well— _that_. He was torn between giving Gabriel the fifth degree, all the while trying to find a flaw that would turn Sam off to Gabriel, and acting pissy and bitchy, like a schoolboy with a crush. Because was it obvious that Sam was attracted to Gabriel? Would acting bitchy cover it up? Sam just didn’t know.

 

“Usual?” Sam blurted as soon as he saw Gabriel, who gave him an affirmative (“Right on, chap.”).

 

Sam nearly tripped over his feet in his haste to make the cappuccino and get Gabriel the hell out of there.

 

“So five books in and Sirius is dead and gone,” Gabriel lamented behind Sam and Sam tried not to focus on Gabriel’s voice because wow, now that Sam had come to terms with his feelings he couldn’t help but like that obnoxious voice. “I guess Voldie’s happy that one competitor’s down. More chance he’ll get to sack Harry.”

 

Sam nearly dropped the cup of coffee with his frenzied movements as he set it on the counter. “Here.”

 

Gabriel traded out the money for the cup and took a small sip, eyeing Sam as he tapped at the register.

 

“So what gives,” Gabriel finally asked, leaning in. “You never miss a chance to hack my bogus theories into toothpicks.”

 

That took Sam by surprise. No matter how hyperaware and uncomfortable of Gabriel’s presence, he couldn’t have held his tongue from dryly asking, “You think your own theories are bogus?”

 

Gabriel smirked and took another sip. “Knew I could get you to act normal. But seriously, Sammy, what gives? Cat got your tongue? What’s bothering you?”

 

“How old are you,” Sam blurted, nervously sweating.

 

Gabriel’s eyebrows rose before he grinned mischievously. “Suppose you won’t believe me if I say eighteen, would you?”

 

Sam’s sour expression was answer enough.

 

“Figures. Ah, you should never ask a man his age, but since you asked so nicely—twenty-two.”

 

Twenty-two. Four years older than Sam. Oh, god. A year younger and Sam would be jailbait to Gabriel. _Why_ did his body have to go after _this_ person of all people?

 

That’s when it hit Sam.

 

“You’re as old as Dean.”

 

Gabriel looked as though he didn’t know how to take the sudden declaration. “Problem with that, Moosey?”

 

Sam lusted after his brother. Well, no, not literally— _that_ would be a whole ‘nother problem, in and of itself—but a person who was damn near the same age, which was _just_ as bad, by god. There wasn’t some complex about taking sexual frustration you felt for your brother and placing it in another his age, was there?”

 

Oh, god, Sam hoped not. That was a whole level of _no_ that Sam didn’t even want to think about.

 

Gabriel leaned in even closer and _wow_ their faces were too close together despite being probably a solid two feet apart. “Seriously, Sammy, something wrong?”

 

Sam took a step back and scowled. “Ever hear of personal space? No? I have other words for it, too—bubble, proximity, interpersonal communication, get-out-of-my-face-before-I-smash-yours-in.”

 

“Touchy. But you know, if you can still snark me, I think you’re good. So, fine. I’ll let you off the hook this time. Ta, Sam.”

 

And with that, Gabriel saluted and left.

 

And Sam had never been equally relieved and distressed to see him leave.

 

XXX

 

Sam wondered why he hadn’t called off. He wanted to, he really did, but when Dean had found out he’d heckled Sam about _what’s the matter, Sammy, having girl troubles_? And Sam had been momentarily so terrified of Dean figuring it out he’d abandoned any notions he’d had of sleeping the day away.

 

Four hours and thirty eight minutes later, Sam thought that any amount of taunting was worth getting away from—

 

“Gabe,” Sam greeted politely enough, despite his rather sudden desire to claw someone’s face off.

 

“Sammy,” Gabriel returned. “This is Kali.”

 

 _Kali_. The name of the person who owned the face Sam felt an odd desire to claw off. In a very cat-fight-like fashion. Not that he was a girl, mind.

 

“Sammy?” Kali questioned, looking between them. “Onto pet names, are we?”

 

Gabriel gave her this smile Sam had never seen before, something like a mix of _you’re not supposed to call him that_ and _yeah, I know, the name suits him, doesn’t it?_

 

“So what’ll it be, Kali?” Sam broke in, ever the polite server he was.

It was then, as Kali said, “café au lait”—in fact, it was as he watched Kali form the _f_ of _café,_ how her teeth pulled back slightly on her plump lip, saw her lips pucker at the _au_ , like she was readying a kiss, saw how she tapped her _l_ against her mouth, with a flash of tongue that was just enough to make Sam’s thoughts want to spiral downwards—that Sam realized Kali was a beautiful, beautiful woman.

 

And Gabriel would be stupid not to be attracted to her.

 

That was when Sam wondered, for the first time, just _what_ sexuality Gabriel was. As he mixed the coffee and milk into Kali’s café au lait, he realized that while Gabriel very obviously supported their brothers’ awkward courting (not that either realized yet that it was courting), he’d never actually explicitly said he was _gay_. Or bi. Or pan. Or whatever else would include Sam in his spectrum of sexuality.

 

Sam frothed Gabriel’s cappuccino. Maybe it was Gabriel’s weird homosexual/pedophiliac theories regarding _Harry Potter_ that made Sam assume that Gabriel was rather open about who he bedded. Maybe it was the fact they’d never talked about it and Sam just took it in stride and ran with it. Maybe it was because their banter (which seemed to have swung from hostile to almost-friendly recently) encouraged him to believe that Gabriel saw more in him than a barista who worked at his cousin’s shop.

 

When Sam turned back to Kali and Gabriel, he felt oddly hollow as he set the cups on the counter. He saw exactly what Gabriel would find attractive in Kali.

 

And he hated every single thing he saw.

 

Her smile had too much of a curve to it, her face too perfectly angled, complimented with skin that was rich enough to be the perfect brand of exotic, and her hair was feathered so carelessly it was obvious its beauty was natural and not the results of hair products. She was an embodiment of a goddess and Sam was tempted to demand her wallet for simply walking into the coffee shop. He was a bit surprised at the vehemence of his feelings, but felt no less inclined to charge her at least five times normal prices, just to wipe the cute smile from her perfect face.

 

But Sam was raised to be polite.

 

_don’t bash her face in don’t bash her face in don’t bash her_

 

So, instead, he said, “On the house.”

 

She was surprised. “Are you sure?”

 

“Oh, I insist.” And Sam tried to tell himself his smile wasn’t sharp. “It’s not often I meet Gabe’s girlfriends.”

 

Gabriel choked on his cappuccino.

 

Kali sent him a concerned look and then Sam a polite one. “Oh, no, Sam. You have me all wrong.” She even laughed, a tittering sound that irritated every fiber of Sam’s being. “Gabby doesn’t _do_ relationships. He’s a—what did he call it?—a _lone wolf_.”

 

Sam felt immediately torn between relief and bitter jealousy. Kali’s speech was clearly a rehearsed one, meaning that she had committed it to memory, and not in a pleasant light. Her obviously fake titter had probably been her trying to cover just how sore of a spot Sam had hit—and that meant the conversation where _Gabby_ told Kali he was a _lone wolf_ had been an ugly one. In short: Gabe hadn’t been interested.

 

But at the same time, the conversation had indeed happened. There had been— _was_ —something between them, even though it was platonic. That riled Sam more than he cared to admit.

 

Gabriel took another sip from his cappuccino, looking rather pensive, like he was trying to decide what kind of response was most appropriate. Unfortunately (or fortunately on his part), Kali didn’t give him time to verbalize it. Instead, she peered into his cup and her perfectly shaped eyebrows drew together.

 

“Cappuccino?” The look she gave him spoke volumes. “Since when do you drink—?”

 

“Kali,” Gabriel interjected, sounding as good-humored as he always did. “I swear you never know when to quit. You give women a whole new stereotype of _loud mouth_.”

 

Kali’s eyes flashed and she straightened her shoulders. Her lips trembled with the heat of a sharp retort, but she visibly sucked it back, and Sam could see the moment she decided Gabriel wasn’t worth the high blood pressure. And for just a moment, Sam had a flashback to how things used to be between him and Gabriel. He might’ve even sympathized with her for a moment before remembering she was Undesirable No. 1. Or, no, rather, that was from _Harry Potter_. But still, she was the enemy, so…

 

“Sam.” Kali nodded in his direction before flipping her hair in Gabriel’s and whirling to leave the coffee house.

 

“Prissy as ever,” Gabriel muttered into his cup once she was out of earshot.                                                                                 

 

Jealousy or not, Sam felt bad at how that’d gone down. “Are you sure that was okay?”

 

“She’s been trying to hook up for _months_ , Sam. _Months_. I’m surprised she left as easily as she did. Does that sound okay to you?” The look he sent Sam clearly said _shoot me if you ever see us within five feet of each other again_ _no really it would be a mercy kill._

 

“So you two…” Sam wasn’t sure what he was trying to ask.

 

Gabriel did, though. “Oh, _please_. She’s possessive and controlling and did I mention _prissy_? That woman thinks she was put here for men to appreciate.”

 

Sam didn’t really get that feeling from her, but he was relieved nonetheless. “Maybe find someone else to take out on a date or whatnot to send her the message.”

 

The look Gabriel shot him could’ve made even the eye of Sauron flinch. “I’m _trying_.”

 

Oh. Well, that wasn’t really something Sam wanted to think about, actually.

 

He cleared his throat and tried to change the subject. “Did you finish _Harry Potter_ yet?”

 

“Geez, Sam, not all of us can have your intellect. I just finished the sixth one, okay? One a day is plenty enough for me. It takes me a bit longer than you’d think to read and digest a book.”

 

Sam was surprised Gabriel was managing a book a day, but kept that fact to himself. “And?”

 

“And?”

 

“Well, where are those bogus theories?”

 

Gabriel leaned over the counter and took another sip of his drink. “I am _so_ glad you asked. Hermione is a lesbian.”

 

The amused smile fell from Sam’s face. “Wait. What?”

 

“Hermione, Sam. Lesbian.”

 

… If Gabriel seriously thought that, the seventh book was going to _destroy_ him.

 

“I mean. There’s no way a gal that smart, that _brave_ , would settle for a guy. She’ll probably fall for someone who challenges her.”

 

And for all of four and a half seconds, Sam was genuinely impressed with the thought and emotion Gabriel seemed to put in that statement (even if he did feel sorry for the chap once he read the seventh book). Figures Gabriel smudged that feeling out of him with a few simple words.

 

“She’s totally going to do that Luna girl.”

 

“Wait—”

 

But there was no waiting for Gabriel once he got started. “I mean, there has to be _some_ lesbian action in there some where. They’re adults, almost, they’re consenting, right? So bring on the scissors.”

 

Cue Gabriel using his hands to make scissoring motions around his cup.

 

“No—”

 

“And I like Hermione with Luna more than I like her with Jackie Chan. Or whatever her name was. Chou Chou? Ching Chong? Chou Chang?”

 

“ _Gabe_ —”

 

“Though there’s always Gin, I suppose. Wait, no, that’s the liquor. What was that girl’s name?” Gabriel made a contemplative face up at the ceiling. “Ginny? I think that was it. She’d do well with Ginny, too, I think. Would get her out of Harry’s hair and get Hermione laid—two birds, one stone, like.”

 

“ _Gabriel_ ,” Sam snapped, and finally managed to get the other man’s attention. “I just—tell me anything but your lesbian theories. Please.”

 

“Oh. Okay,” Gabriel relented, and Sam should’ve known because that was _too easy_. “Let’s go back to talking about Voldemort and his obsession with banging kids—”

 

“ _No_ ,” Sam hissed, darting a glance around the coffee house.

 

Balthazar remained blissfully unaware of what was being discussed, enthralled in reading a book a some variety far enough off that he couldn’t hear them. And thankfully, there weren’t many customers, and the few who were there were far enough away to not get caught in the crossfire.

 

“Let’s _not_ ,” he finished sharply, pinning Gabriel with a glower.

 

Hearing about Voldemort’s imaginary _habits_ brought Gabriel’s theory to mind, which made Sam recall _that_ —when Gabriel vocalized a sex scene in detail, and _things_ happened, that should never have happened, especially to a nice boy like Sam who never asked for such _things_ to happen.

 

Maybe _Harry Potter_ wasn’t such a good idea.

 

Sam shifted uncomfortably as he remembered just what fantasies of his own those _things_ involved. “Gabe, just—”

 

“Gabriel, your presence is soiling the air,” Balthazar piped in, not taking his eyes from his book.

 

And _wow,_ Sam didn’t know he had been listening.

 

“Please be on your way before these foul thoughts of yours dirty my shop,” Balthazar continued, this time sparing Gabriel a moment’s glance before darting his eyes back to his novel.

 

Gabriel rolled his eyes. “Fine, fine. Just this once I’ll be a good boy and listen. I gotta be gettin’ home, anyway, before Kali comes back.”

 

“Yeah,” Sam agreed numbly.

 

Sam vowed never to discuss _Harry Potter_ with Gabriel again.

 

XXX

 

The next day was dead. Achingly dead. Almost through his shift, and not more than twenty customers had come in. Castiel and Dean had come in, but they’d taken to a corner table to gossip and giggle, which was so very boring. Sam was about to sacrifice life and limb and start playing stabscotch to pass the time when Gabriel came strolling in.

 

“Thank _God_ you’re here,” Sam groaned.

 

“Something you wanna tell me, Sammy?” Gabriel meaningfully looked at the fork Sam had poised over his hand and then up at Sam.

 

“Uh.” Sam pushed the fork out of Gabriel’s line of sight. “No. It’s nothing. Just—”

 

Sam shrugged and flashed an innocent smile.

 

“Oookay. I’ll just call you Leopold von Sacher-Masoch and be done with it, right?”

 

“Wait, no—”

 

“Anyway, Sammy-boy, it’s done. Forgotten. Now onto business.”

 

Sam saw a glint in Gabriel’s eye he didn’t like. Usually after such glints, the most absurd things were about to come from Gabriel’s mouth, or he was about to perform stunts that would rival Evel Knievel’s level of stupidity.

 

“Everything is clear to me, Sam.”

 

And Gabriel said that like one would after being touched by an angel when one lead a life of vice and sin and had the truth of the universe revealed to oneself.

 

Which was probably why Gabriel’s next words nearly made his legs give out beneath him.

 

“Harry Potter is King Arthur.”

 

Absolute silence.

 

Nearby, a cricket sang its lungs out.

 

“And…”

 

Wow, Sam was having a hard time remembering he had vocal cords, let alone use them right then.

 

“And how…”

 

Sam’s voice faded out again, his vocal cords officially handing over a resignation letter. The poor things were done wasting their natural life fighting off Gabriel and his shenanigans.

 

Gabriel, though, apparently knew what Sam was trying so desperately to say, for he continued, “How do I know that, you ask? I’ll be happy to show you.”

 

And then Gabriel pulled out a piece of paper that was about the size of a playing card, but much, much thicker—obviously a large sheet of paper folded up to a manageable size.

 

Several moments of _crinkle… crinkle crinkle_ went by as Gabriel unfolded the paper bit by bit and laid it on the counter, using his hands to press it flat.

 

Sam stared down at the rather large paper and for a moment wondered where Gabriel would’ve even gotten it. It had to be at least a foot wide, and a foot and a half long. Much bigger than any printer paper Sam had ever seen, anyway.

 

Then Sam realized there were charts and pictograms and notes scritched and scratched all over the paper. Sam could only _assume_ they were supposed to be English, because they looked more like Arabic with how the were more humps and loops than slashes and points.

 

Sam helplessly looked up to see Gabriel looking like a smug bastard, and not really knowing what Gabriel thought he presented that warranted said expression. The indecipherable mess he’d just presented might have been the long lost map to the forgotten underwater city of Atlantis for all Sam could make out of it. Or the Chinese Classics—maybe Gabriel was into Confucianism? Though _what_ that had to do with Harry Potter and his resemblance to King Arthur, Sam wasn’t really sure.

 

Apparently, though, Sam’s vocal cords decided this shit was too baffling to stay away, and came back from their early retirement long enough to help Sam ask, “What _is_ this?”

 

Gabriel’s smile dropped, like he was disheartened that Sam didn’t just understand it at a glance. “It’s a chart.”

 

Really now.

 

Sam looked back down at the paper and let his eyes trace over the symbols and pictures and—

 

“Is that a drawing?” Sam pointed to one of the depictions.

 

Gabriel nodded approvingly. “Yup.”

 

Sam squinted. “Is that… a guy pulling a…”

 

His squint intensified.

 

“Is—is that _porn?_ ”

 

Gabriel scowled, obviously insulted. “Where?”

 

“ _There_.” Sam pointed to the offending drawing.

 

Gabriel looked even more insulted. “How is that porn?”

 

“Gabe. You draw a guy holding a—a _dick_.”

 

“Nuh-uh.”

 

“Yeah- _huh_.”

 

“That’s a _sword_.”

 

Sam actually took a step back to give Gabriel a look over and try to ascertain if he was serious. “A sword? Is that porn-talk for dick?”

 

Gabriel glowered. “It’s the Sword of Gryffindor.”

 

Sam looked back at the paper. He stared. He squinted. He tilted his head to the right. He took a step back and lifted his head so that he was peering down. He stepped forward again and tilted his head to the left.

 

Finally, he asked, “You’re sure it’s not a—”

 

“ _Yes,_ I’m sure it’s not a bloody dick,” Gabriel snapped. Then he paused. “Don’t tell Balthy I just said _bloody_. He’ll think he’s wearing off on me.”

 

“Okay, okay. It’s a sword.”

 

Gabriel pointed to the English cross-dressing as Arabic next to the drawing of the guy holding the penis-sword. “I even wrote it here. It’s Harry pulling out the Sword of Gryffindor from the Sorting Hat in the second book. And look, see, I drew a line over here.”

 

Sam followed his gesture to another drawing.

 

“Gabriel! That’s a guy humping a dick!”

 

“It is _not_! It’s Harry grabbing the Sword from the bottom of that lake!”

 

Sam looked at Gabriel, scandalized, as Gabriel stared at Sam, scandalized, but more at the insults to his artistic abilities than anything else. And so they both stood, scandalized.

 

“Okay, let’s say that is Harry with the sword. What does that prove?”

 

“It _proves_ that just as Arthur was destined to greatness through Excaliber, so was Harry with the Sword of Gryffindor. Excaliber was a sword meant for Arthur alone, while the Sword was almost destined to be the sword used by Harry to bring Voldie-ass to his knees. It _means_ that there’s a parallel between Arthur and Harry. Harry saved the wizarding world, Arthur brought great peace to Camelot, and in a sense did the same. Some stories of Arthur end with the line that he’s destined to return when the world most needs him, as the once and future king. How do you _not_ see Harry as a modern Arthur?”

 

Gabriel even pointed to various spots of his paper as he spoke, and every thing he said had a diagram or series of English-Arabic notes to accompany it. And.

 

And.

 

All Sam could think about after that speech was that he’d forgotten (or erased from his memory) that Gabriel called Voldemort _Voldie-ass_.

 

“Okay,” he finally managed. “Okay, let’s say your theory has merit. What about the fact that it was Neville who used it to kill Nagini?”

 

Gabriel pointed to something on his paper, like the gibberish he’d written there explained it all.

 

Sam looked down at it. Sam looked up at Gabriel. Sam wondered what he was doing with his life.

 

“Gabriel. Harry isn’t Arthur.”

 

Gabriel gave you a look that clearly said _I’ll fight you on this don’t tempt me my fists are furious_.

 

“Gabe, no. Just—just talk about something else.” Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. “Usual?”

 

Gabriel didn’t offer protest, so Sam took that to mean yes. As he prepared Gabriel’s cappuccino, Gabriel continued his _Harry Potter_ musings.

 

“And Harry wound up not banging Voldie-ass.”

 

Sam froze, hand on a cup, about to pull it free from its tower on the counter. “Gabe, I _really_ don’t want to hear anything more about that theory.”

 

His body was heating up just remembering what thoughts were associated with that theory.

 

“You’re such a spoilsport,” Gabriel whined. “What _can_ I talk about with you, then?”

 

Sam desperately thought up a safe topic as he started making the cappuccino. “Uh. The ending.”

 

That was a pretty boring point of conversation, right? Nothing for Gabriel to twist and skew there.

 

Apparently Gabriel could.

 

“The _ending_ though. I mean, come one. What a weak way to go. Harry was a bit of a lady’s man, wasn’t he? Why did he _have_ to settle and make a family so young?”

 

Sam paused to look over at Gabriel. “I don’t think that was the point of the ending. I mean, I think it was just supposed to be a happy ending. Everyone’s supposed to be happy, and—”

 

“There were so many other great matches for him, though.” Then Gabriel gently coughed out, “Voldie-ass.”

 

Sam frowned but ignored that last bit as he finished Gabriel’s drink. “Gabe, no, seriously. I don’t think that was the point.”

 

Gabriel groaned. “And why did it have to be a _woman_? Why couldn’t the protagonist of a modern classic be _gay_ for once?”

 

It’s that sentence; it’s those exact words. That’s what Sam blamed it on later. That little phrase, that little _word_ —gay—that dropped the thought into Sam’s mind. The idea that obviously Gabriel _thought_ gay things—that he looked at a guy and asked himself _damn, why couldn’t he be gay?_ It was the final bit of proof Sam wanted so badly that Gabriel didn’t look down on gays—not that Sam ever really thought that, considering how much Gabriel reluctantly shipped their brothers.

 

It was a small thing, but that’s all it took.

 

The cappuccino, which Sam had been extending to Gabriel’s outstretched hand, slipped from his grasp and splattered all over the counter.

 

Gabriel leaned back, face full of subdued surprise. He looked up at Sam and Sam _knew_ Gabriel was about to make a smart-ass remark. Maybe _so you thought he was gay, too, huh?_ Or _homophobe-much_? Or something snarky and sassy and sarcastic and _Gabriel_.

 

But he was never given the chance to vocalize whatever retort he was readying, because.

 

_tongue lip teeth tongue fingers through hair fingers on shirt tongue lip teeth tongue fingers going back to hair fingers on skin tongue lip teeth tongue skin on skin_

Because Sam leaned across he counter, yanked Gabriel forward with force, and bent down so that their mouths crashed together. It was ungraceful at first. (Movies made it look so much easier.) It took a moment for Sam to adjust his mouth on Gabriel’s, to perfect the execution, but he finally managed it; to press his mouth just right that they melted together.

 

And it was hot. Temperature wise, of course, but the other way, too. Appealing. Sexy. It was nothing Sam had ever daydreamed, because it was better. It was _real_ and it was

 

_tongue lip teeth tongue fingers through hair fingers on shirt tongue lip teeth tongue fingers going back to hair fingers on skin tongue lip teeth tongue skin on skin_

 

Sam’s hands clenched in Gabriel’s shirt, then traveling to knot in his hair, then moving down to feel his neck, the down more to clench in his shirt, and move again, restlessly, trying to scope out everything _Gabe_. And it was Gabriel taking in a sharp breath and not moving, and a moment when Sam thought he was mouth-raping his customer, and about to pull back, but then Gabriel was grabbing Sam with an intensity that Sam had never experienced before, bordering on desperation. Like they were polar opposites of a magnet, every time they parted, it was only to come back together, parting only slightly to try tilting their heads a different way, and then swinging back together. It was _messy_ , loud breaths through their noses, and closed eyes. It was.

 

It was suffocating.

 

His lungs burned from how little he was breathing, and Sam remembered suddenly he was at his _work_. He was in a _coffee shop_. With _people_.

 

That was probably what convinced Sam to tear away suddenly, slipping off of the counter he’d damn near crawled across to get to Gabriel.

 

And for some reason, it wasn’t until Sam saw the flush in Gabriel’s cheeks, how breathless and flustered he was, that Sam realized _Gabriel had kissed back_.

 

Sam opened his mouth to say something—anything, really—but found that his vocal cords were gone, resignation letter on their desk again. What was there to say, anyway?

 

“Oh, yeah. And what the flying fuck was up with Hermione and Ron? That didn’t come out of left field or anything. They were great friends! Why did here need to be romance at all, _that’s_ what I’m wondering, because the story was just fine without it.”

 

Sam wondered briefly if Gabriel had even noticed Sam kissing him, or if he’d maybe thought Sam came from a culture where people just _did_ that. Or even worse, that maybe Gabriel thought Sam had a sudden itch to role-play some Harry/Voldie-ass fanfiction or something of the kind.

 

Maybe Gabriel saw something flicker across Sam’s face, because he cut himself off mid-rant to say, “Moosey, it took you damn long enough to realize.”

 

Sam frowned. “That Ron and Hermione got married? No, I knew that from the epilogue—”

 

Gabriel cut him off. “I don’t read books for shits and giggles. I had to fucking _Google_ what half of _It_ even _meant_ , for shit’s sake!”

 

Ah, this sounded more like the foul-mouthed Gabriel that Sam was familiar with.

 

“And _Carrie_!” Gabriel threw his hands up helplessly. “Well, I still think _Carrie_ was a giant period—”

 

Wait, no.

 

“No. No, we are _not_ allowed to mention that theory every again,” Sam told Gabriel very seriously.

 

Gabriel raised his hands in surrender, obviously willing to let that one die. “All I’m saying, Sammy-boy, is that I’ve been _trying_ to get your attention for the _longest_ time and I _finally_ thought that maybe reading those books you’re always referencing would help. I even took my two weeks off work to make time for them because you just _had_ to like some of the longest books. But, it looks like I was right.”

 

He looked down at the mess that was still on the counter and back up at Sam. “Reading those books sure did help.”

 

“Yeah, well…” Sam shuffled in place, darting his eyes away nervously to seek out a rag to clean up the spilled remains of the cappuccino.

 

Not sure what else to say, Sam continued, “I’ll make you another cappuccino.”

 

“ _No_.” Gabriel grabbed Sam’s arm like he was a POW and Sam was his torturer about to bring on more pain. “No, _please_.”

 

Gabriel even _sounded_ like he was begging for the torture to end.

 

“Not another cappuccino. I’m so _sick_ of those damn things.”

 

Sam was honestly taken aback. “You don’t like cappuccinos? But you order one every time you come in—”

 

“Because you’re so _hoity-toity_ , Sam,” Gabriel exploded. “How serious would you take me in here and I ordered— _that_.”

 

He emphatically pointed to where Dean sat, bery berry smoothie in hand (with extra raspberries and whipped cream, as usual).

 

Sam glanced over at Dean, who was obviously still sitting with Castiel since the two of them were one person recently, and horror built in him as he realized his _brother_ had probably witnessed his make-out with a guy who was Dean’s age.

 

Dean, though, looked a bit casual about the whole thing. “I was waiting for your heart-to-heart to end,” he called over, “before saying this, Sammy. About damn time!”

 

Sam nearly choked on his tongue before looking at the thunderstruck Castiel, thinking about how ironic it was that _Dean_ was saying it’d been obvious he’d been harboring some sort of feelings for Gabriel when Dean still wasn’t admitting his for—

 

But no, that was another story.

 

With the casual attitude of a man who had just accepted his fate as a man shocked beyond repair, Sam turned back to Gabriel.

 

“You like smoothies?” he asked, resuming their earlier conversation.

 

“Sam,” Gabriel began seriously, “I fucking _love_ smoothies.”

 

Sam found that hilarious for some reason, and finished mopping up the remains of the cappuccino and began making a bery berry smoothie (extra raspberries and whipped cream) instead.

 

He handed it off to Gabriel, who took it and slurped some up before shooting another glance at their brothers, who were openly staring at them.

 

“Now we just gotta work on _them_ getting together,” Gabriel said conspiratorially. “They need _laid_.”

 

Sam gave the two a weary look, still not keen on the idea of thinking about his brother _laying_ anyone, least of all Castiel.

 

Weakly: “Yeah, well…”

 

“ _Speaking_ of getting laid! Kids!” Gabriel burst out suddenly, and Sam blinked.

 

“I’m a bit… young for—” Sam started hesitantly, not even sure what Gabriel was trying to insinuate.

 

“What a _stupid_ goddamn epilogue!” Gabriel continued at the same time, “I mean…!”

 

Sam shut his mouth and pretended he hadn’t said _anything_.

 

“And Sam?” Gabriel cut himself off again.

 

And Sam thought he’d never regret Gabriel reading a book, but if Gabriel spouted off one more goddamn theory…

 

“Yeah?” Sam suspiciously asked.

 

Gabriel leaned forward and planted a small kiss on Sam. When he leaned back he barked to Balthazar, “Sam’s off for the rest of the night.”

 

Balthazar, who had been unmoved by the spectacle, instead focusing on his magazine du jour, slapped his poor magazine down on the table he was sitting at nearby. “Just because you two finally admitted you want to fornicate like wild animals—”

 

Sam’s face reddened because the way Balthazar said it, it was like Sam had been doe-eyeing Gabriel for months, the same way Dean and Castiel did each other. Which was so not the case…!

 

“—does _not_ mean I’m going to give you the opportunity to do it!” Balthazar finished.

 

“Alright,” Gabriel agreed easily. “Then we’ll _fornicate_ ”—and he said it with enough mockery of a British accent to make Balthazar glare—“right here on the counter.”

 

Balthazar looked scandalized. “Sam, you have the night off. Get out—get out _now_. If I have to live to witness you paw at each other even one more time…”

 

Gabriel snickered before turning his attention to Sam again. “You ready, Moosey?”

 

“Ready?” Sam repeated, his brain too fried from shock to keep up.

 

Gabriel, being the rude (little) shit he was, rose a single eyebrow before leaning in to stage-whisper, “This is the part where _we_ get laid.”

 

XXX

**Author's Note:**

> And with that, my job here is done. Hope ya enjoyed the crack.
> 
> //puzz out


End file.
